


Becoming Your Own Self-Fulfilled Prophecy

by MagieFish



Series: Abstraction [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depictions of Child Abuse, Gen, Mentions of Death, Not super Graphic, Sammy needs some hugs and a therapist, Self-Hatred, because his childhood was one big y i k e s, if I choose to write anymore, tags will update, yes I did steal the title from oh no by Marina and the diamonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23718895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagieFish/pseuds/MagieFish
Summary: Even after everything, he didn’t know if running was the right choice. Sure, he had been burnt, and beaten and cut but he had a roof over his head. He had food. He had more than a suitcase. He didn’t even know where he would go from here. His food and cash would run out and he’d be left wandering.Betrayed.Abandoned.With only a banjo…Curse that stupid banjo.
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence & Jack Fain
Series: Abstraction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585996
Kudos: 11





	Becoming Your Own Self-Fulfilled Prophecy

The rain was so quiet. He knew that it wasn’t really, but compared to the calamity he had escaped from the growls of thunder and the flashes of lightning seemed peaceful. A shiver went through him and he clutched his suitcase tighter. He prayed that the clothes stored inside were still dry and that god would have enough providence to keep him from catching pneumonia. 

His stomach lurched as his shoe caught on a root, the muddy ground making him slip forward into the dirt. There was a wet thud, like the one he had heard not a few hours earlier, and the sting of the impact shot through his body. A greater sting was present in his hand and he realised that he had grazed it on a stone. Thunder rumbled overhead, a deep chuckle in the grey clouds, as he pulled himself up and fumbled for his suitcase. His body ached from the cold and his wounds and the impact, but he knew he didn’t have time to stop. His father could be out there in the dark trees, hidden among the roar of the wind and the smell of the soaked earth. The thought sent a fresh wave of fear through him and as soon as he found the handle he was off again.

He could see the lights of the Utterson’s house, but he couldn’t risk going in there and having his father find him. He knew just how much his community valued family. They’d hand him back no questions asked, ignoring the wounds and his tears and the fresh smell of chalk, blood and smoke on his father. He wasn’t going back. He wouldn’t let them take him back. 

Then he remembered. The treehouse. _The Utterson’s had a treehouse!_ He bolted across the bloated dirt, tripping a few times but still keeping the suitcase cradled in his arms like a baby. Feeling the first rung of the ladder against his frozen palm, he stopped to consider how dangerous it was in the wet, roaring night. The treehouse wasn’t that high, but if he fell…

He pushed that thought far away.

Fumbling about, he managed to find the latch on the bottom of the small building and pulled it aside, throwing it open. Slipping his suitcase in, he hoisted himself up into the treehouse. He never understood why it was called a house, seeing as it was the size of a shed and clearly built for someone much smaller than him. He vaguely remembered when both he and the utterson twins could fit in there comfortably. But that was when he was younger. That was when his mother was still alive. 

With a heavy sigh of relief he lay down against the old moldy wood. A cobweb pressed against his cheek, a tickle he was sure was some kind of insect blossoming on his hand. He would have brushed it away but he was just too tired. With the adrenaline gone the weight of exhaustion passed over him and the cold began to gnaw at his bones like a beast. The darkness grew deeper and blackened further, and he drifted off into the realm of sleep.

* * *

He woke slowly, the glare of the sun pressing against his eyes. Nature beckoned him to wake with a cold breeze and the first thing he really noticed was the song of the birds. He lay still for a moment, getting his bearings. The treehouse was obviously long abandoned, covered in mould, fungus and moss. The sun shone brightly through the windows so it was sometime around noon. The door was still open but nobody had noticed. He still wasn’t comfortable with it just exposing him like that and leaned over to close it. Fresh pain shot through him once more and he clutched his chest. He examined his clothes and saw that they were absolutely caked in dried mud and damp. He wasn’t very comfortable with the idea of changing in a treehouse so he figured he’d just have to walk until he found a private space somewhere. Though he could do with examining his wounds. 

Unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt he ran a finger over the cut. Even at the time, through the searing pain and tears, he knew his father was doing something very intricate and deliberate. But feeling the knife marks now, it became obvious that there was some kind of symbol on his chest and certainly not a Christian one. The central shape appeared to be a triangle with various smaller patterns and lines branching off of it. He suspected the outer lines formed a hexagon but he couldn’t be sure. The wound didn’t feel infected at least and he considered that a good sign. Buttoning up his shirt he began to consider his options.

He had packed enough food for a few days, mostly just bread and fruit. He’d have to eat the fruit first before it went off so the bread would be saved for later. He had a few clothes and some cash which would likely be able to get him somewhere to sleep for the next few days. His banjo was also in there, safely tucked away. It was a bit of a stupid desicion, taking it. It took up quite a bit of space that could’ve been used for clothes or supplies but he just _couldn’t_ let it go. Perhaps he was overly sentimental, but he knew his journey would be a lonely one and he wanted music for company. Honestly he had always only had music for company. 

It was strange, growing up in a house with 6 siblings yet feeling completely alone. All the other people at church always talked about their siblings with contempt or adoration but he couldn’t say anything about his. It might’ve been a blessing actually. It made leaving easier. It made the screams from the attic only a reminder of his hourglass. And it meant they couldn’t hurt him like his father. They couldn’t poke and prod at his brain until it was mush, couldn’t dig sharp nails into his eyes and draw out tears, couldn’t lie to him so much that the lies became the truth and his judgement rotted. Even after everything, he didn’t know if running was the right choice. Sure, he had been burnt, and beaten and cut but he had a roof over his head. He had food. He had more than a suitcase. He didn’t even know where he would go from here. His food and cash would run out and he’d be left wandering. 

Betrayed. 

Abandoned. 

With only a banjo…

Curse that stupid banjo.

* * *

He regretted cursing the banjo. The music earned from playing it hadn’t been much, but it gave him a decent amount of money. Even though the people in the pub had stared at him like he was a serial killer when he first walked in (frankly he couldn’t blame them he probably looked like a corpse) they had been willing to toss him a few dollars after he played a couple tunes. After getting a drink and taking a nap he had wandered into the men’s room to change in a stall. His clothes were beyond saving, the original whites and blacks invisible beneath the mud, wet and the small patches of dried blood, and he was forced to bin them. He threw some water on his face and hair to rid him of the filth and made a vague attempt to untangle his hair. All the while he found himself transfixed by his face. 

The day’s in his house were a grey miserable blur. He had never truly processed anything, just drifting through life like a ghost. But now he had the time to truly look at himself he realised just how terrible he looked. His face was sharp, that stuck out to him, and his eyes had a tired look. His near sickly pale skin clung to his bones, making his eyes stick out of their sockets and his cheekbones protrude out unnaturally. His hair was a strange mix of brown and blonde like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. He knew he wanted it to be long and free, like his mother’s and his sisters, but that wasn’t a privilege his father allowed. 

His eyes stood out to him. They were a deep dark brown, like the walls of a grave as they sank into the earth. They mocked him, stabbing him with the same knives the glares from his father gave him. He looked like his father. He looked too much like his father. He felt his finger’s reach up and touch the raised burn on his neck. He winced at the memory of his father placing that hot cross into his skin, screaming until his throat was sore but still feeling that ball of agony in his chest that needed to be unwound, so he let it spill as water from his eyes. He felt his unclipped nails dig into his flesh. His father had already branded and marked him enough, why did he have to fester in his own face? Lava bubbled and boiled in his throat.

He wanted to scream. 

He wanted to break the mirror.

He wanted to rip his own skin off and replace it with somebody else’s. 

But he didn’t. Instead he paid for a room and crouched before the window. He couldn’t figure out why he still prayed, but he did. Even with all the prayers that went unanswered, he still desperately wanted to believe in a god. He guessed it was programmed into him by this point. And he didn’t want to let go of the faint hope that all his suffering had a reason, that he would emerge from his torment reborn like Christ. Maybe god just had so many prayers to answer he had postponed others, and one day he’d wake up and they’d all be answered at once to make up for lost time. He just hoped that day came sooner and added that to his prayer. 

* * *

He lay in his bed for hours, completely alone with his thoughts. Most thoughts were about where he would go. There were quite a few big cities to vanish into, places his father would never find him. New York seemed fairly promising, apparently a hotspot for artists. Until a better option presented itself he was headed to a train station that could get him there. 

The other thoughts were about his future, what he would do next. He had concluded that he wanted to be a musician. He had played a few tunes on his banjo that had sounded good and once he learnt how to write sheet music he could truly compose. He also remembered some nights when his father had passed out drunk downstairs. He never checked, that was Zachary’s job. That was one of the few things he knew about Zachary. He was always praised at church for being such a good Christian boy. The mothers would chat about what a fine husband he would make, or what a fine priest or what a fine anything. He also knew that Zach spent a lot of time in the woods. He also knew he had a drawer filled with various dead animal parts. 

Anyway, his father would be asleep and Vanessa would walk up to him and ask him to play a song. And so he began, finger’s darting between the strings of the banjo like a firefly. The song lit up the room, and all his siblings would stop whatever they were doing and listen to the music. His mother had taught him how to play the banjo, she had taught them all how to play on the small piano downstairs. The piano still stood there, silent and dust covered, as much a corpse as her. Sophia had tried, just once, to play the piano after she died. He remembered her sitting there, hair tied in a tight bun dressed in all black, glasses perched on her nose. She looked like a crow, small and sharp and jet black with a calculated glint in her eye. His father had stormed in, pushing him to the ground. He didn’t see what happened next, but he heard various clashing notes, the familiar creak of the fallboard, followed by a loud scream of pain. She didn’t play the piano anymore, now sitting in the corner with a book among the 6 faces watching him play. Then 5. Then 4. Then gone.

An uneasiness began to gnaw at his stomach. Once his father realised he was truly gone there would be only one person left to direct his anger onto. The events replayed in his mind. Screaming, manhunts, funeral. Was that what he had left his sister to? Had he condemned her to a terrible fate? Was she lying now, still on one of the floors of the house, her life leaking out in red, her glassy eyes staring at him, empty yet pleading for him to _save her._

No. He didn’t need to think about that right now. He just needed to rest. And with that he closed his eyes and attempted to clear his head.

* * *

He didn’t know when sleep had claimed him. But he knew for sure he was dreaming. It was a nightmare he had many times. Even if he was still in the rented room, he recognised the distant piano tune. He walked to the door and opened it, revealing a large church hall. A light shone outside the window but failed to penetrate the stained glass, leaving the pews barren of any colourful patterns. His mother sat on the raised platform at the end of the room, surrounded by candles flickering, dying. A sad song trickled out from the keys of the piano and to his ears. He wanted to call out to her but he found his voice silenced as the song grew louder, wrapping around his throat and choking it. Tears welled in his eyes and he ran towards her, reaching out. 

But when he touched her he didn’t feel the soft fabric of her cardigan. 

A crow now sat perched on her shoulder, staring at him with a malicious glint in it’s eye as his hand rested upon its wing. It was only now that he realised his mother was slumped over the keys, head resting on the top of the piano. The rest of her body was still, yet her hands kept moving, darting up and down the keys with an unnatural fluidity.

Suddenly, the crow let out a loud squawk and leapt at him, claws bared. He fell backwards, eyes avoiding the knives outstretched to him, and tumbled into darkness. He felt no pain stab his back and quickly got to his feet. The void was seemingly infinite, seemingly empty, seemingly silent. But in the distance he could see a window, raised above the ground, which was indistinguishable from the rest of the black. Echoing in his head he could hear the sounds of distress behind him, Adam & Terrance fighting over something, completely ignorant to everything. The knocking began, slow and heavy against the glass. He could see Jane, pounding on the glass of the attic window, eye’s glassy and empty, face covered in the symbols and blood. A hand, distorted by fear, appearing wolf like and deadly, pulled the curtain back and the window was swallowed by the void. 

He turned, about to ask his brother’s if they saw that but was instead greeted with a macabre sight he had only heard about. He was in the woods now, the sun shining down, the buzz of happy bees and feasting flies mingling together. The twins were nowhere to be seen, only a pile of severed limbs indistinguishable from one another laying on the forest floor. They were beginning to rot, the smell clogging up all his senses until he wanted to scream. 

Instead he turned again, desperate to get away, grabbing a suitcase and running, ignoring the distant screams of Zachary, ignoring Vanessa’s angry tones, demanding to know why he left, why he abandoned her, ignoring the pounding of footsteps behind him as his father caught up with him, a hand halting him, an arm wrapping around his throat, the hand now covering his mouth, smelling of chalk, smoke, alcohol, blood, _scream._

He woke up. That last part was new but it was nothing to relish in. He bit his lip and tried to kill his fear as he had done so many cold nights. Pictured it like an insolent fly he could swat away and crush. But this time a spider creeped up onto him, a new thought. He was alone. No one would hear him cry. And so, for the first time in years, he buried his face in the pillow and let out loud cathartic sobs until he was too tired to stay in the waking world again.

* * *

The sun was setting when he reached the station. The week of walking had been a surprising blessing. Locked in the place he once called a house, he had no idea how much he had longed for fresh air, for forest’s unmarred by memories, for an excuse to move about even if it was tiring and occasionally miserable. He paid for the train ticket and felt a wave of something indescribable as he clutched the paper. 

He had done it. 

He had escaped his father and this was the key to his permanent freedom. Sitting on the bench, staring at the snake like tracks and the sun melting like a candle into the horizon, he felt on the verge of tears. Not lava filled tears of anger or ice cold tears of sadness. Shining sunshine tears of joy. Of course, he wasn’t going to break down on a train platform in front of several people. He knew they’d either look at him funny, or worse, try to comfort him. The last thing he needed was someone feeling sorry for him. 

He had about an hour until the train actually arrived and some time to kill, so he reached into his suitcase and pulled out the banjo. Over the week he had been working on a tune that he refused to forget, and until he could find a piece of paper he was going to hammer it into his brain at every opportunity. He let his fingers glide over the strings, delicately plucking and moving like a dance. He glanced around to see if any of the other people on the station minded but nobody seemed to. In fact, he saw one person in a hat swaying slightly, and though they could be drunk he decided to take the more positive view and continued to play.

The song was like gorgeous quicksand, pulling him deeper the longer he played. The notes leapt through the air, an upbeat but slow tune. The rest of the world phased out, becoming a blurry dream to the reality of the melody. He felt his body loosen as the music seemed to ebb through him. He wasn’t going to lie to himself, this was the most relaxed he had ever felt. Playing an instrument in the open air, the sun atmospherically lighting the environment, enhancing his just acquired liberation. It was a peaceful and calming aesthetic that fully reflected his utmost state of serenity.

Then he almost hit the person next to him with a banjo in reflex to them placing a hand on his shoulder. He was glad he didn’t, less for the person’s safety and more out of fear of his beloved instrument breaking. The man who had narrowly avoided having his kneecaps broken by a banjo gave him a look of confused fear and raised his hands.

“Woah, um, sorry for spooking you.”, the hat wearing stranger tentatively replied to his attack.

He was the first person who had spoken to him in days but all his words stayed lodged in his throat, refusing to give anything to this stranger. He stared into his eyes, hoping the intensity would ward off this stranger. Instead, they anxiously pointed to the bench space beside him. Apparently taking his silence for an answer, he shuffled over and awkwardly sat down. 

He clutched his banjo tighter, not playing it but not using it as a weapon either. Just for comfort around this weirdo. He appeared to be eyeing his banjo, with those gleaming green eyes that spoke of moss and quiet. But no matter how quiet his eyes were, he didn’t trust him. The possibilities crept in like smoke. Was he trying to rob him of his banjo, his wallet? Was he some sort of preacher? Or was he something much much worse. A killer. Here to befriend him then throw his body in the trash. The strings of his banjo dug deeper into his fingers.

“I see you’re a musician too”, the stranger hesitantly asked.

He gave a vague nod. So, this guy wrote music.

“You, um, play the banjo?”

He thought that was obvious, but he nodded anyway. The stranger shifted, causing a loose bit of the bench to rise a bit. 

“I don’t really play an instrument.”, Then how was he a musician?!, “I write lyrics. W-well, not to music or anything, I mean, I can hear the music in my head but I can’t play it but I write lyrics to it anyway…”

The stranger’s voice trembled as he spoke, betraying his chatty attitude. He supposed his curiosity betrayed him too, as he looked over and began to properly take in this hat wearing lyricist. He wasn’t thin, but wasn’t round either, the barest traces of fat clinging to him. At least he assumed that was it, it could just be the oversized shirt he was wearing. The hat on his head was round, just like everything else, with a red-orange fabric going around it. He had a soft if slightly curious and nervous expression on his face. His nose was a bit round but also stuck out sharply. He didn’t know why but looking at him produced the mental image of a teapot. 

“I don’t write music either, just play it.”, he rushed the words out, and hoped hat man caught onto how rare it was for him to spare words.

“Oh…”, Hat man seemed disappointed for some reason, “Then what were you playing?”

“Doesn’t have a name, I made it up.”, He shifted the banjo in his hands, “But if I had to name it I’d call it...Vanessa.”

Hat man’s eyes lit up with a greater curiosity. _Shit._

“Who’s she?”, He glanced away, trying to think of the right response, “Oh, um, sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Private stuff and all that.”

Now he was even more confused. People don’t back up on questions, they insist until you give them an answer, and if it’s the wrong one they’ll keep asking. _Why did he just back down like that?_

“I liked the piece by the way, it was good.”

He snapped his head round to look at him, “What.”

Hat man seemed somewhat taken aback by his sudden response, “Well, um, I mean it has a nice feeling to it, hopeful, and you played it quite quickly, and well and um….are you headed to New York too?”

His head was reeling. He was so confused. Why would a stranger just compliment him? It was nice, but he didn’t understand it. And now he was asking where he was going. This guy was either so into music he’d talk to a stranger because he played something or he was trying to kidnap him. 

“Yes…”, He slowly answered, “Why?”

Hat man cleared his throat, “Well, I just thought the song could go with lyrics.”, He glanced away and quickly whispered the next part, “I came up with lyrics whilst listening to the song and thought it would be easier to develop them if we were on the same train.”

Hat man then shut his eyes tight, anticipating something harsh. He just stared at him, attempting to process this. Someone had heard his music and come up with lyrics to it and was attempting to collaborate with him. Someone enjoyed his music enough to create around it. Someone wanted to talk to him. Today just went from great to better.

“Yes. Yes I would very much like it if we did that.”

Hat man looked back at him, surprise lining his face, “Really?”

“Yes.”, He brandished his banjo, “But I have to warn you, I can’t write sheet music so I’m going to have to play it over and over again.”

“Well that makes two of us I suppose.”, Hat responded, letting out a small chuckle. He didn’t find it particularly funny but let a smile brush over his lips, “So, why are you heading to New York? Fame and art and all that?”

He shrugged, “Partially.”

“Me too. The other part is that I’m alone back in my old home and kind of want a fresh start of sorts.”

Despite being nervous at first, this hat man had certainly gotten much more open. His voice had gained a warmer tone, tipped with an unfamiliar eagerness. He finally decided that there wasn’t any deceit behind hat man’s proposition and allowed a question to wander from his mouth.

“What’s your name?”

Hat man reached into his bag and pulled out a bunch of paper, “Jack Fain.”, He absentmindedly replied.

He nodded, steadying the banjo again. Jack Fain. A nice name. He didn’t want to be dishonest but he also didn’t want to keep the old name. That name belonged to someone else now, someone who was still cowering in the house.

“I’m Sammy.”, He replied, trying to hide the hesitance.

“Got a surname?”, Jack raised an eyebrow, a smile stretching across his face.

“Not one I want to keep.”, _Spilling personal information already huh._

He let out a small whistle, “Aren’t you a mysterious figure Sammy?”

Now it was his turn to let out a chuckle. 

They had a while to discuss their music before the train rolled up and they stuffed their music related items away. They attempted to continue on the train but people were less forgiving of tunes on transport. Jack had taken to reading a book, whichever one it was he didn’t care, and he was left to stare out of the window. He watched the fields bass by in flickers, like the landscape was a candle being blown by the breeze. And as one by one the sights blew out, Sammy knew that his father was never going to find him. His father was gone now, left with Samuel and his barren home and rotten heart. Sammy was off to someplace better, and once he got there he was never turning back.

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a short piece for chapter 2’s 3rd anniversary and look how that turned out :/
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading that angst fest through to the end! I’m debating wether or not to continue Sammy’s story, so feel free to tell me wether or not you’d like to see more in the comments. See ya!


End file.
